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My Life
Chapter IX: Sand and Sun
Chapter IX: Sand and Sun
I looked back at Casablanca, which in the distance, with all the lights blurred together, looked exactly like a great, sparkling diamond. The brightness of the city was accentuated by the fact that apart from the aerodrome there was not another light outside the boundary of the town, and the surrounding country was in pitch darkness, for by this time the moon had set. Leaning forward I turned off the navigation lights to conserve the battery, and switched on to the rear petrol-tank. The aeroplane roared along like a steady ship cutting through a calm sea.
It was impossible to distinguish anything in the blackness which enveloped the earth beneath. The sky, clear and exquisitely lovely, was encrusted with stars, like myriads of diamonds scattered at random across the vault of heaven. One by one I watched the stars fade before the oncoming dawn, and gradually the darkness gave way to a cold grey light, through which I began to distinguish the country over which I was flying. Miles and miles of sandy ridges met my eye, with here and there a rocky patch sparsely covered with vegetation. To the east the dark outline of the Atlaspage 120Mountains towered high in the sky. It was growing rapidly lighter, and from behind the purple shadows of the Atlas a single ray of gold pierced the sky. The effect was unbelievable; the sky was tinted with the most gorgeous colours—layer upon layer, from deep crimson to exquisite shades of rose, all wonderfully blended. A solitary little cloud high up in the greeny blue above the strata of colour became a pale gold as one by one the rays pierced the sky and the sun rose from behind the mountains. Paling the rich colouring to pastel tints it shone down, completely dominating the clear blue sky.
I was passing over Mogador, and ahead were the rocky peaks of the Atlas Mountains as the range terminated abruptly at the coast. The towering peaks looked like great giants whose progress farther westward had been checked by the mighty Atlantic. What a huge range it was, too, for even here by the coast where the mountains were lower they rose to a height of over 2000 feet, while about a hundred miles inland some of them reached a height of over 12,000 feet. The mountains rose in some places almost sheer from the sea, and I decided to fly some little distance from the coast so that I should be sheltered for the next sixty miles or so from the piercing heat of the sun, which was now burning down with fierce intensity.
It was time for breakfast: so absorbed had I been in watching the sunrise and sighting Mogador that hunger had been forgotten. I now thought longingly of bacon and eggs, crisp toast, and a cup of hot tea. This being out of the question, I surveyed the contents ofpage 121the larder. On the floor of the cockpit was a box I named the tucker-box. It was well within my reach, but unfortunately near enough to the auxiliary tanks to allow all the food to be permeated by the unappetizing odour of petrol and oil. The contents of the box formed the daily rations, which consisted of ham sandwiches, ordered overnight, chocolate, which was now in a state of liquid, milk tablets, apples, dates, barley-sugar, raisins, cereals, cheese, one thermos flask of black coffee and one of water. Not a very long list for breakfast, lunch, and tea in the air. The other things would keep, I decided, selecting a ham sandwich. Holding the control column in my left hand I managed to sip some coffee from the flask without spilling a drop on my white suit. Fortunately the air was calm here in the shelter of the mountains, for this was an extremely difficult feat to perform. To hold the control column in the left hand, keep one eye on the instrument-board and the other on the compass, and while keeping the aeroplane flying straight and level attempt to pour out a cup of coffee from the thermos flask is no easy task. More than once in the past when trying to perform this feat in bumpy weather a shower of hot coffee had been precipitated over me, so nowadays I usually drank out of the thermos itself after leaving the cap off for some time previously to cool the liquid.
After finishing my breakfast with an apple I felt decidedly refreshed. I was then flying over a rocky promontory and rounding the curve of the mountains to Agadir. Should I land at Agadir and obtain a weather report for Villa Cisneros, for the report given topage 122me at Casablanca only covered the route as far as this French military outpost? It was already 7.30, G.M.T., and if I was to make Thies before sundown, allowing for one hour on the ground at Villa Cisneros, there was no time to be wasted. In any case, I thought, if the sand were blowing there would be a sufficient margin of petrol left for me to turn back to Cape Juby, which would be the next landing-ground I should pass over about three hundred miles farther on.
The farther southward I flew the more wild and barren became the country, until it was so featureless that there was nothing to look at but mile after mile of sandy coastline. It was easy to realize now why I had been ordered to carry all the additional equipment. There was no sign of civilization to be seen: no living thing apparently existed on this forsaken-looking country. Even a stray herd of camels would at least have relieved the monotony of the yellow sandy expanse. Opening both windows that I might gain some respite from the close, suffocating heat inside the cabin, I struggled to remove my heavy coat. The monotony was not to last long, however, for soon a series of bumps which seemed to shake the whole structure of the aircraft roused me from my lethargy. The sky was partially covered with fluffy cumulus clouds, above which I climbed in an endeavour to reach calmer atmosphere.
Almost two hours out from Agadir I caught sight of a small encampment through a gap in the clouds, and shutting off the engine glided down so as to make sure I had not passed over Cape Juby without checking it. There it was, a group of square white houses and apage 123landing-ground marked with a circle—a welcome sight to a lonely pilot. Setting a direct course for Villa Cisneros I climbed once more above the clouds, which were assuming a yellowish tinge with the dust which a fresh wind was whirling up from the desert. It looked rather like a storm blowing up, and I hoped the weather would hold at least long enough for me to fly through to Villa Cisneros, another 350 miles farther on.
An hour later I decided it was a case of jumping from the frying-pan into the fire. Above the cloud layer I avoided the bumps and bad visibility, but the sun was scorching, and looking down on to clouds was even more monotonous than the barren desert. Gliding down through a gap I found the clouds offered a certain amount of shelter from the sun, and although it was bumpy visibility had improved considerably. I strained my eyes for some sign of an Arab encampment, remembering all the tales I had heard about the Riffs, who apparently lived in this part of the world. Years ago when the French were surveying a route over the Sahara Desert, and across which they now operate two motor-car services and a regular air service, they experienced a great deal of trouble with the natives. On this west coast route, however, the natives had been the most troublesome, for they seemed particularly cruel and warlike. During those pioneering days aeroplanes had frequently been forced down on this territory, and some of the men captured by the Riffs had been cruelly tortured. Eventually the French Government had made the Riffs understand that an aviator was worth money to them if delivered safe and sound. Nowadayspage 124the worst that could happen to any aviator who made a forced landing on this desolate stretch would be that if captured by the Riffs he would be held to ransom. That may have had something to do with that 100,000-franc guarantee that I had to arrange, I thought, wishing the time would pass more quickly, so that I could once more reach civilization. All the same, my curiosity prompted me to wish for one peep at a Riff. Not a horde of them such as I had seen in Foreign Legion pictures, where thousands dashed across the screen, but just one or two viewed from 1000 feet couldn't be very dangerous. However, they were either very elusive or encamped in the sandhills farther inland, for I failed to see any sign of life whatever, although I knew from past experience how natives could apparently spring from nowhere when a stranger landed on their territory.
To the west stretched the mighty Atlantic, with its blue expanse seeming to stretch into infinity. Although it provided a certain relief from the intense glare of the desert, I viewed it with some uneasiness. It was a constant reminder of the 100 per cent, efficiency that would be demanded of the trusty engine which purred so happily hour after hour. I wished that the taking-off point for the South Atlantic crossing were not so far from England. The three thousand miles to West Africa seemed a long, gruelling flight in itself rather than a prelude to an Atlantic flight. Neither the engine nor myself could be expected to be quite as fresh as when we left at the commencement of the flight. A severe test was in store for the aircraft too, and for the big auxiliary eighty-gallon petrol-tank, which almostpage 125completely filled the cabin, leaving me only just sufficient room to climb in front of it to take my place at the controls. For the flight across the Atlantic Ocean it would be necessary to fill all five petrol-tanks to capacity, so that the aircraft would be very heavily laden for the take-off. For the flight to the military aerodrome of Thies, from where I proposed crossing to Brazil, it was not necessary to fill all the tanks, for there were aerodromes at reasonable intervals where it was possible to refuel. For the 1907-mile flight from Thies to Natal it would be of the utmost importance to have a safety margin of petrol.
The horizon was blurred by a yellow dust-haze, and visibility became steadily worse, until at last I was forced to fly very low over the coastline so that I might not lose sight of it altogether and perhaps miss Villa Cisneros. After flying so low that at times I was obliged to hurdle the machine over rocky boulders on the shore at last the air became clearer, and running parallel with the coastline I noticed a line of fairly high sandhills. These hills were of peculiar undulating formation, and were marked on my map as "Las Almenas," terminating about twenty-five miles north-east of Villa Cisneros.
Very soon I was passing over a long, tapering sandy stretch, its golden yellow accentuated by the deep blue water of an inlet which almost severed it from the mainland. Picking up the map I read, "Ed Dajla Sahria Peninsula," and looked ahead for a glimpse of Villa Cisneros, which should be at the southern end of the peninsula. Early adventurers in these parts hadpage 126evidently mistaken the large inlet for the mouth of some great river, and not bothering to explore the blue strip had given it the name of Rio de Oro ("River of Gold") and sailed away. I wondered whether there was really gold there, or whether the name referred to the golden sands on each side of the inlet.
To the south of the sandy strip I could see the radio masts of Villa Cisneros, and was soon flying over the rows of tiny black tents of an Arab encampment. After circling the square white tower of the fort I flew across the aerodrome. There were wheel and tail-skid marks on the ground, so evidently the surface, if hard, was crusty or covered with a soft layer of sand, I thought, shutting off the engine. The aerodrome was really a large part of the desert fenced off with barbed wire, and as I glided down to land it was as if I were entering a furnace, so intense was the heat.
It is extremely difficult after being hours in the air to judge accurately one's height above the ground when landing on sand. Especially is this so at midday, when the sun has reached its meridian and there are practically no shadows. The heat rising from the sand made little waves in the atmosphere just like the ripples above a fire. As I rubbed my eyes and stared down at the golden surface the heat-waves gave the illusion of sandhills, and for one frightful second I imagined that they were real hillocks which would overturn the machine. Touching down near the hangar I switched off the engine, for there was a regulation forbidding taxying on this aerodrome owing to the miniature dust-storm created by doing so. Mechanics wheeled the machinepage 127into the shade of the hangar, and at once commenced refuelling.
I did not intend staying long on the ground, for there was another 680-mile flight to Thies, where it was imperative that I should land before sunset, as no night landing facilities were available there. I watched the native boys busily straining the petrol through the chamois-leather filter, and wondered idly why it was necessary for twelve of them to cluster round each tank as it was filled, whereas the refuelling could have been finished in ten minutes had they distributed themselves and filled all tanks simultaneously. As each was filled there was a loud shout from all twelve as the petrol overflowed and poured down the wing. A lot of talking ensued as the cap was replaced, and exactly the same process repeated at the next tank. I had salvaged the packet of sandwiches before the petrol-tin being hoisted on to the side of the machine overbalanced and distributed part of its contents into the tucker-box. Opening the packet I found that the bread had dried up, and just as I had finished the ham and thrown the bread to some persistent native dogs a motor-car pulled up outside the hangar. From it stepped a Spanish officer, who saluted and explained in French that the hospitable Governor sent his compliments, and would be very pleased if I would join him at lunch. I looked at my watch and wondered if I could really afford the time for lunch. Where was the house? Was it far away, I inquired of the officer. He pointed to the square white house just outside the boundary of the aerodrome, and I decided to accept the invitation.
page 128As soon as the refuelling was finished I accompanied the officer to the house, where the Governor and his wife were waiting to receive me. The large white house was typically Spanish with its arched doorways and cool blue-and-white-tiled floors. How restful, I felt, sinking into a deep chair and sipping a cool drink and conversing with the Governor and his wife in my best Spanish. Each of the children was presented to me, and looking at the four bright little faces I wondered how it was they were so healthy in this great heat. "I flew right over your country yesterday," I told the charming little wife of the Governor as the silent-footed servant served the lunch. She was surprised and rather sorry that I had not landed in Spain. Would I not care to stay and rest for the night, she inquired. I had a vivid mental vision of the cool room where I had bathed my sunburned hands and face on my arrival as I reluctantly declined her invitation. The time was passing all too quickly, so, thanking the Governor's wife for her hospitality, I bade good-bye to my newfound friends.
Although it was so hot in the open the Governor kindly offered to accompany me to the aerodrome, where the machine was quickly wheeled out of the hangar and the engine started up. The slipstream from the propeller was whirling up the sand, which looked like a smoke-screen behind the machine, and the fine, choking dust was blowing into my eyes and mouth, so that I could even taste the grit between my teeth. Quickly bidding good-bye to the Governor, I climbed into the cockpit and took straight off. As Ipage 129turned to fly back across the aerodrome the cloud of sand defined my line of take-off, and through the yellow haze I could see the white-clad figures on the ground waving good-bye. Not River of Gold, but Hearts of Gold they should have called this place, I thought, remembering the kindness of my new-found friends, living so far away from their own country in this lonely outpost.
For the next three hundred miles the route lay inland, but as visibility became steadily worse and the yellow dust blotted out the horizon I decided to alter course and steer for Port Étienne, where I could land if the sand-storms were blowing farther south. Mile after mile of barren sandy desert slipped past, with never a tree or bush or even a blade of grass to relieve the monotonous yellow. I felt very lonely flying over this vast stretch, for utter desolation reigned supreme, and not a sign of civilization was to be seen anywhere. The wind was northerly, about 40 m.p.h. I estimated, as the machine sped southward, covering the next two hundred miles in just over an hour. I did not fly over Port Étienne, but cut across the top of the peninsula and continued on down the coast, leaving Spanish territory and crossing the border to French Mauritania.
A name on the map caught my eye, "Île des Pelicans," and gliding down I flew low over the island, in the hope of seeing some sign of life, but it seemed just as desolate as the rest of the coast. A hundred miles farther south I could hardly believe my eyes when a flock of about a thousand flamingos rose like a lovely veil of pink tulle from the islands over which I waspage 130flying. Shortly afterwards I saw a small fishing-smack, and when a little native village with three men on camels riding towards it came into view I considered this must be quite a thickly populated district.
The heat was terrific, and it was almost with feelings of relief that I hailed the sight of an approaching rain-storm. "It would at least cool the atmosphere," I thought, flying low along the coast as the heavy tropical rain pelted down so fiercely that I could only just see the white line of rollers breaking on the beach beneath. When the rain had almost ceased I removed my topee, and putting my head out the window let the rain drench my hair and cool my burning face. The rain was refreshing, and my weariness left me as I once more donned my sun-helmet and estimated the time when I should pass over the town of St Louis, at the mouth of the Senegal river.
The country was becoming greener, for the sandhills were sparsely covered with vegetation, and occasional clumps of trees dotted the landscape. As I flew over a vast swamp in the centre of which was a lake hundreds of wild birds, evidently disturbed by the noise of the engine, rose like a cloud from the green reeds.
Quite suddenly I came upon the river Senegal wending its way southward through the thick dark green vegetation. My course lay parallel to the river, and it was not until nearing St Louis that I actually crossed it and was able to see the many palm-trees and the jungle debris floating down the muddy waters to the sea.
St Louis, with its shady trees and white houses, lookedpage 131a prosperous and busy town. In the centre was a railway station, for a line connected Thies and Dakar with St Louis, and I guessed that the arrival of a train was quite an event. The sea for some considerable distance from the shore was discoloured by the muddy waters of the great river as it flowed into the blue Atlantic. The sun was low on the horizon, and I expected to arrive at Thies just before sundown, for I knew from experience how little twilight there is in the tropics. The wind had dropped completely, and the tree-tops of the dark green jungle which covered the flat country were thrown into relief by the golden rays of the setting sun.
In the fast-fading light I saw the railway fork at Thies, and immediately sighted a large clearing in the jungle, which was the aerodrome. Circling the hangar I pulled back the throttle and glided down to land. As I crossed the boundary it seemed impossible to lose speed, and the aeroplane, flying just above the ground, was rapidly approaching the high trees at the end of the aerodrome. Quickly I opened up the throttle: the machine roared over the trees. Whatever had happened, I wondered, circling to attempt another landing. Exactly the same thing occurred again, and I found that the throttle lever had jammed, and it was quite impossible to pull it right back.
The light was fading fast; I must get down somehow. There was only one thing to do, and that was to switch off completely. Leaning forward I knocked the two little switches on the dashboard down, and as the roar of the engine ceased glided silently towards the aero-page 132drome. The aeroplane seemed to sink heavily through the still air, and the now lifeless metal propeller caught the last rays of light. It was imperative that I make no error now, for there was no engine to help me if I undershot the aerodrome. Manoeuvring the machine so that I should land well inside the boundary I glided silently over the trees and landed near the hangar. A group of mechanics who had gathered outside the hangar while I had been circling were now running across to the machine. Opening the door, I climbed out, feeling decidedly stiff after the 1600-mile flight from Casablanca. The aeroplane was pushed into the hangar and soon surrounded by an admiring group of mechanics. Several French officers congratulated me on my fast flight from England, and I now realized for the first time that it was only thirty-six hours since I had left England, three thousand miles away.
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